


A Hell Of A Trick

by Mistiel, nihilism



Category: Sandman Slim - Richard Kadrey, Supernatural
Genre: Angels and Demons, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Gen, Kinda mad at you Wobbles, Roleplay Logs, Vegas strippers, disembodied heads spying for Satan, stolen cars, the sort of thing you'd expect really
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-15
Updated: 2015-07-15
Packaged: 2018-04-09 13:21:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4350371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mistiel/pseuds/Mistiel, https://archiveofourown.org/users/nihilism/pseuds/nihilism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester is rescued from Hell by a snarky Abomination with a penchant for old western movies and a mild allergy to holy water.  Supernatural/Sandman Slim X-Over (Post-season 3 SPN; post-Sandman Slim book 1).  More info inside.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It's Just a Trick I Can Do

**Author's Note:**

> A Sandman Slim/Supernatural Crossover in which James Stark, AKA Sandman Slim, assists Castiel (for as yet unknown reasons) in retrieving Dean from Hell. It takes place directly after the end of Season 3 of SPN and a couple months after the events of Sandman Slim, the original novel. 
> 
> Don't be afraid if you haven't read the wonderful series of Sandman Slim! Dean is clueless, too, so James explains some things to him. One important factor is that James Stark possesses the sole key to the Room of Thirteen Doors, which is the center of the universe; from that space, he can go anywhere, and he can drag others along.
> 
> The Hell is the Hell of Sandman Slim, as is the Lucifer, but most other elements will be from Supernatural, including the demons.
> 
> Though it is a roleplay log, it reads well as prose, too. It will probably always be unfinished but there will be several chapters. We might have shamelessly borrowed some lines directly from the novels/show, but not very many of them.

The smell of the arena hasn't changed in the nine months since Stark broke out of Hell. Dust and blood and cordite, with the same underbite of sulfur and shit that exists everywhere Downtown. The tens of thousands of spectators, Hellions and damned souls and demons, still give off the same dull roar of bloodlust. The tone changes noticeably when Stark's about halfway across the killing floor, but by that time it's too late for any of them to do much to stop him.

The soul he's been sent to save is still on its feet, which is pretty impressive, considering that the Hellion opponent is about six times its size and has three times as many arms. Stark will have to remember to ask for an autograph later. Moving low and fast, he rams his left shoulder in Winchester's stomach then lifts, throwing the soul over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. Simultaneously, he snaps the na'at in his right hand out, twisting the grip to collapse the shaft and flicking it like a whip to tangle up the Hellion opponent's ponderous rush. Big but stupid, the creature falls hard, and Stark's starting to enjoy himself almost enough to go back to behead it. The chaos in the stands and the malformed guards advancing from the corners of the arena are enough to convince him to stick with the plan, instead, and he heads for the nearest door to the underground, which is open, and dark.

Stark keeps his eyes on the guards as he bolts for the shadow, remembering chains, remembering psychic rape. This turns out to be a mistake. The guards apparently remember Stark, as well; they're moving slow, cautious, with microscopic head-twitches left and right while they check that none of their buddies have backed off - which would give them an opening to back off as well. 

The idiot Hellion gladiator, on the other hand, has found his feet. Just as Stark, with Winchester still wheezing over his shoulder, reaches the shadow, the gladiator reveals his secret weapon. A Devil Daisy. It's easily recognizable, considering that Kasabian tried to kill Stark with one about six months back. Taking the last few feet at a leap, Stark nearly outruns the explosion. Nearly. He lifts his free right arm to cover his face, and a second later, falls back through the Door of Fire into the Room with his jacket smoking and the arm inside it done medium well.

But there are more pressing concerns, currently. As soon as Stark reached the Room of Thirteen Doors, the soul over his shoulder started to fade. Winchester doesn't look well. Aside from the bruises and the blood from the fight, he's flickering in and out like a bad Star Trek hologram. This is what happens to souls bound to nothing when they start to near the physical world again. With a muttered curse, Stark hauls ass through the Door of Nothing.

It's dark there, as it always is, so he digs Mason's lighter out of a pocket. The zippo ignites the empty realm with more candle power than it should ever be able to put out, and Stark quickly finds the binding circle he'd scratched into the formless floor before heading into Hell. As soon as he dumps the soul inside the circle, Winchester's form solidifies again. He's not breathing, but that shouldn't be too concerning, should it?

Stepping back from the circle, Stark rolls his head from side to side to crack his neck, and peers out into the empty dark.

"All right, angel. Come out, come out, where ever you are."

There's no immediate response, but Stark isn't surprised. Angels don't set much store by time, and that's only judging from the Earth-bound ones he's met before. Probably the celestial type are even less worried about punctuality. Dropping onto his ass, Stark lights a Malediction and wiles away the time by checking out the damage to his jacket. He ought to buy a ranch, as much tanned cow hide as he goes through.

The light of the angel's appearance dims Mason's lighter into inconsequentialness. Stark squints, and can barely make out the winged form within the light. Once his eyes (sort of) adjust, he waves his cigarette at the soul in the binding circle. "There you go. I would've added a bow, but I was busy getting my ass parboiled."

The angel regards him impassively, which the angel almost always does. Finally, it nods. He's pretty sure it nods, anyway; the silhouette among the light is hard to look at directly. "You've done well." The voice is, as always, completely expressionless.

"Good on me," Stark responds, almost as blankly. "Tell your boss he can keep the plaque, just send me a bonus."

There's another long silence, one that seems somewhat bewildered, and Stark shakes his head. "Forget it. Just do what you need to do; I have to go home and drown myself in a bathtub full of Jack."

The angel nods, he thinks, and steps to the edge of the circle. The angel Speaks. The sound of Enochian grates on Stark's ears, just barely on the edge of pain, and he looks away as the light intensifies. When it fades and he looks back, the soul is no longer only a soul. Winchester is unconscious, but obviously alive, and in much, much better shape. The wounds, the scars from fighting in Hell are gone. Stark knows better than to ask the angel to heal his wounds. 

Stark flicks the Malediction into the chaotic aether, and draws the black blade from his boot to break the circle. Winchester weighs more when corporeal, it turns out, but is still fairly easy to toss over a shoulder. Settling the body, Stark looks back to the angel. He feels the need to say something, but it's never easy to initiate small talk with a creature who feels nothing at all. Instead, he nods once.

"You're still an Abomination," the angel says. Stark offers a blatantly false grin in return, so it continues. "But your cooperation in this matter is appreciated."

It's impossible to shrug, so Stark waves a hand dismissively. "Just glad to be doing virtuous work." The sarcasm couldn't be more obvious, but the angel seems perplexed, anyway. It stares blankly at him for a few more moments, then says flatly, "Watch him."

And it's gone. Rolling his eyes at the theatrics, Stark sidles through the shadow and back into the Room. Through the Door of Ice and, finally, back to the hotel in LA. He drops Winchester onto one of the beds and, as instructed, watches. But only for a moment.

He's not sure how long angel-formaldehyde will keep the guy out, but in the meantime, he wants a shower. Digging through the paraphernalia piled on the other bed, Stark unearths a pair of leather manacles that Candy provided him with, and uses them to strap one of Winchester's wrists to the headboard before heading to the bathroom. It wouldn't do to have the guy he's supposed to be watching take off without warning.

Stark could find him again, of course, but what a pain in the ass.

* * *

When Dean wakes up it's to an ache that runs through his whole body, like he's been asleep for years and his body's just been sitting there, unused. Which, it kind of was, sort of, actually. But whatever. Blinking open his eyes he takes in the crackled, yellowed ceiling above him, then the to the curtained windows as he turns his head. A motel. He's in a motel? The fuck is he doing in a motel?

Dean tries to sit up but when he does he's jerked back, pulling his arm and making him wince. Looking back he sees his wrist cuffed to the headboard of the bed. "Mother fucker," he mutters, then scoots back so he doesn't pull his damn arm out of socket as he tries to undo the cuffs to free his arm. It's taking way longer than it should, hands and fingers not working like they're supposed to, he still feels a little sluggish from just waking up.

He's not thinking about it. Nope, nope, nope. He knows where he's been for the last... god knows how long, what he's been doing, been forced to do but he doesn't know how he got here or where he is. He wonders if it's another trick, if he fucked up somehow and they tossed him back onto the rack. He's been careful to do what they wanted, what he was supposed to do. It was how he got into the ring in the first place.

 

Another tally to go on Stark's repertoire of murdering clothes; he shoves the soiled material out of the way with a foot and dries off. Maybe the jeans and t-shirt could be cleaned of the Hell-stink, but aside from the boots, he'll never wear any of that outfit again. In retrospect, it may have been a good idea to carry clean clothes with him, since when he emerges nude from the bathroom, the captive is awake. Oh, well; undoubtedly the dude has seen naked dudes before (given that he is one himself, sometimes) and the scars covering much of his torso and pretty much all of his arms undoubtedly draw notice quicker than anything below belt.

Stark does have a towel, but he's using it to scrub at the fried skin on his right forearm, reddish-black flakes falling to the shag carpet underneath. He stares at Winchester for a moment, then gives a single nod. "Welcome back."

Though he's not what anyone would call shy, this is slightly awkward, so Stark crosses to the bed whereupon all his belongings are piled and unearths a pair of relatively clean jeans, pulls them on. Then he pulls a duffel bag from under a pile of shiny killing toys and starts rooting through it, not offering any explanation for the moment. It'll be easier to answer questions once they've been asked.

 

Dean stills when the door is opened and some guy walks out buck naked. Not the first thing he notices, honestly, mostly because there's someone else here and he's chained up like a wild dog to the bed. He's been in worse positions, let's be honest, but this one isn't a favourite either. The scars do indeed draw his attention more than anything else, the man scowling as he watched the other guy scour for clothes.

"The hell is that supposed to mean?" Dean asks, voice rough and more gravel like than it usually is. It's not like he did a lot of talking on the rack or in the ring. "What do you mean 'back'?"

Because yeah, he'd like an answer to why the hell he was in a motel. Last he knew they didn't have motels in Hell.

But now he's here in this motel that he has no idea how he got to, tied to the frigging bed.

 

(There are totally motels in Hell, only the damned have to pay an extra deposit, and you don't want to eat the mints on the pillows.)

Stark keeps digging, checking different pockets on the bag. He has a sneaking suspicion that Candy didn't give him the keys to the manacles; it's the sort of thing she would find funny, maybe spiced with a little jealousy. If she only knew what he would use them for. Eventually he shakes his head, giving up, and snags the black blade from the dresser where he left it. 

Rounding the bed and walking up the narrow space between both, he leans over Winchester and slices through the cuff attached to the headboard. He would have cut the one around Winchester's wrist, but the guy seems sort of flustered, so probably coming at him with a knife wouldn't be a good idea.

"No, not 'the hell'. That's what I mean. Welcome back to Earth." 

Stark shoves some of the paraphernalia out of the way so he can sit down, stretching long legs out. He's not incredibly tall, perhaps 6'1 or 2, but seems taller due to lanky limbs, a leanness that seems comprised of thick bundles of resilient wire rather than soft human flesh and fragile bones. There's certainly something hardened in his face, though it's less scarred than the majority of his body; one long, thin white scar cuts from the left temple, barely missing the corner of the left eye, and continuing down to bisect his cheekbone and ending a quarter-inch from the corner of his mouth. The opposite cheek also has a pair of short, bisecting scars, that work like a dimple on the (somewhat infrequent) occasion of a smile, and a thicker diagonal scar that comes from his hairline to intersect with the right eyebrow.

Despite this, the eyes are probably the hardest thing about him, a light grey like brushed nickel and colder than a Hollywood pimp's heart. They inspect Winchester for a moment, looking for signs of impending attack. Apparently finding none, Stark flicks a quick gaze back at the mess on the bed and snatches a half-full bottle of Jack Daniels, then offers it to the other man. "So, cheers."

 

Seeing the knife, Dean instantly tenses, then scrambles back against the headboard and wildly looks around for something to use as a weapon to defend himself. He falters a little when the cuff was simply cut away, the man pulling his arm quickly back, shaking it out and rotating his shoulder a little. He was quiet for a long moment, gaze hard and cautious.

"Earth," he says slowly because clearly he doesn't believe this guy. Nor trust him. How was he to know this wasn't one of their little games they were playing with him? That happened often on the rack, a wonderful way of torture. "I'm on frigging Earth? Are you shitting me? What the fuck do you mean I'm on Earth? How does that even happen? Because it doesn't."

Despite his misgivings, Dean takes the proffered bottle because holy fuck he needs a drink right now. He can't be on Earth. This has gotta be some kind of sick joke or torture device. "How the hell did I get out? Cuz last I checked, pal, there was no escaping Hell."

 

Stark continues watching Winchester for a long moment, like he's never seen anything like him and doesn't quite know what to do with him. When he, Stark, came back from Hell, he knew immediately that he was home. But then again, Stark walked himself out of Hell. Finally he shrugs one shoulder, addressing the last question flippantly. "It's just a trick I can do."

Redirecting his gaze, Stark scrubs the towel over his arm a few more times then tosses it towards the bathroom. Most of the flash-fried flesh has come off, leaving the flesh beneath raw and red, fading to a deep sunburn at his wrist and bicep. Another dip in the duffel bag comes up with a thick glass jar full of a reddish-brown paste flecked with plant matter, which when opened proves to smell like gasoline with a musky, pungent herbal underbite, sort of like pennyroyal. Stark scoops a bit out with his left hand, wrinkles his nose at the goop, but starts slathering his arm with it.

 

"It's a trick you can do? Seriously? That's what you're going with? A trick?" Dean made a face at that, because really? Really? "Well that's a hell of a trick then, too bad I don't buy it." Because how can he? They'd looked over and over for a way to get him out of going to hell and he had no doubt (he hoped at least) that Sam had been - might be still - trying to find a way to get him out and this - this guy just waltzes the fuck out with him?

No, no way that's real. It seriously can't be.

Dean reels back a little at the stench of whatever the hell is in that jar, scrunching his nose. Then he notices the raw pink look of his arms and raises a brow. "What happened to you?"

 

There's a little compressed almost-grin forming on Stark's face in response to Winchester's cynicism. Who could blame him, after hanging out in Hell for a while, if he doesn't believe everything he's told? But it's still funny. As if the very air in the room doesn't give away the lack of Hellion influence. "A hell of a trick is right." Stark looks dispassionately at his arm. "Still, even I can't walk into Hell and expect to get away without a souvenir or two."

Finishing when the nasty-smelling potion, Stark caps the jar and tosses it back into his bag. He reaches over to reclaim the bottle of whisky, and grabs the room service menu off the bedside table while he's at it. Takes a swig, scans the menu, then tosses it at Winchester. "Hungry? The food here's barely passable, but dead cow still tastes better than sauteed manticore or unicorn salad." Setting the whisky down again, he hauls himself to his feet and starts digging for socks and a shirt.

 

Scowling at the half-grin, Dean takes another couple swallows of the whiskey. He still doesn't get it, but this place feels... cleaner, lighter, easier to breathe than it was down there. That isn't something that can be fabricated in Hell. He lets out a breath so deep it's like he's been holding it all this time. "So, what, you can just walk into Hell and walk back out? What are you?"

Snatching up a couple menus, he looks them over and snorts softly to the statement. Man, he could eat a frigging Unicorn right now he's so starved. He will certainly be ordering quite a bit. "Starving, actually," he said, then continued. "So how am I back here, like this? Last I remember the hellhound was making a chew toy out of my guts."

 

After pulling on an old Germs shirt with the sleeves ripped off, Stark shoves the mess on his bed aside enough to flop onto it, stretching out. His arm is itching like fury, but he does his best to ignore it. " _What_ am I?" He gives Winchester a look that seems offended, lowering his voice in mockery. "Seriously? That's what you're going with? _What_?"

Shrugging away the (mostly fabricated) annoyance, Stark starts flipping channels on the seriously outdated television. "Order me a cheeseburger. Rare, with bacon and extra onions." Finding a program that appears mindless but not too obnoxious, he leaves it there, mostly for something to stare at. "You were in Hell; I got you out." Like most of his responses, this one is casual, like it happens every day. No way is he going into the angel involvement, not yet. "A Hellhound? The thing I saw you fighting looked more like the lovechild of a sidewinder and the Hulk, only with extra appendages. You don't remember that? Or the explosion before the credits rolled?"

 

Dean rolls his eyes so hard his head rolls with it as he turns back to the menu. "Yeah, you heard me. What. As in you're probably not human if you can just walk right on into Hell and back." Because really, who could do that? No on. No one human or alive anyway.

Opening his mouth to retort he snaps it shut and just grunts out an affirmative that he heard him and would do it, though he wouldn't like it. If this guy did get him out then he at least owes him that much, he supposes. "What?" Dean asks, confused but then shakes his head. "No no, I meant my body. Pretty sure it got torn to shreds when I died. How am I here without my guts hanging out?"

Oh, no, he remembered all of that. He remembered every torturous moment on the rack and he remembered every fight in the ring up until the point he was pulled out. Though the rest of that was a blanket of blurry mess to him.

 

There's a strong exhalation through the nose, not quite a snort, but of the same derisory quality. "Right. _What_ I am is smarter than to tell a hunter what I am. Racked up enough injuries for the day." Stark lifts his paste-slathered arm as evidence. 

"As for the rest of it... _do_ you remember anything after that Hellion set off the miniature nuke? Where we went after that? Anything at all?" Winchester wasn't exactly coherent, but angels tend to leave an impression on anyone. And Stark isn't exactly looking forward to explaining any of that, nor why he assisted the process in the first place.

 

Hah, point. Well he had to try, at least. Dean's still betting on not human. "Yeah, well, thanks," he says, meaning it, cause otherwise he'd still be downstairs.

"It's all sort of blurry. I try to remember but it just gets fuzzier the harder I try," which confuses him because one) he has a great memory and b) if he could remember everything else that happened down there, why can't he remember that? Unless something or someone doesn't want him to.

Dean takes a moment to order them food first, otherwise he'll never eat with all the questions needing answers. He puts in the guy's order first, then his own; a couple bacon double cheeseburgers and fries, oh and pie. Man, he hasn't had that in forever. He makes sure they don't forget the pie.

 

Well, _that_ throws Stark, if nothing else has. Thanks? He peers sidelong at Winchester, not moving his head, just his eyes, looking uncomfortable and confused. After a moment, he makes a dismissive sort of noise in his throat. Since when do people thank him for saving them? 

Looking again at the television, he gives up on distraction and turns it off. Sighing, like this is all a big pain in the ass, he nonetheless turns halfway to face the other man, with an air of getting down to business. Or of confession. "It wasn't all me. Waltzing into The Killing Fields and hauling your pretty ass out, I can do; creating a human body from thin air is still beyond me. After your Hellion pal charred me, we went to..." Trailing off, his eyes get a slightly unfocused look. How to explain that part? There's a miniscule shake of the head as he mentally throws explanation out the window. "I took you to Nothing, and that's where the shining white knight put you back together. It was a tag-team effort, so you don't only have me to thank."

That's probably more than Stark intended on giving away, immediately; he still doesn't know enough about this guy to satisfy his own curiosity, much less bare his soul. Grabbing a pack of Maledictions, Hell's favorite cigarette, he uses Mason's lighter to ignite one, following it with a shot of Jack from the bottle.

 

Once Dean's done ordering the food he sits back and tries to work the other cuff off of his hand, though he's certainly paying attention when the guy starts talking again. He pauses and looks up, surprised. It hadn't been just him? Though he makes a slight face to being called pretty. But the part that really caught him was the fact his body was re-made. He'd felt that damn thing tearing into him, there shouldn't have been much left and his brother should have burned him in a Hunter's funeral, but if Sam thought he could get him back, he'd likely just bury him instead.

The thought that there's someone else behind the scenes makes him a little jittery. Just what the hell's going on? Why has he been brought back, pulled out of Hell in the first place? "What's the Nothing? It's not some creepy Neverending Story shit is it? So where's this other guy at? He just give me a body and disappear?"

 

There's another sigh from Stark, and smoke comes out with it this time. Maledictions smell kind of like a tire fire in a candy factory, not like anything made on earth. "You're never satisfied, are you, Atreyu?" Of course the bastard has more questions.

"No, Nothing is pretty inoffensive. At least, it is _now_ , since it's empty again. And it's not the Nothing. It's just, nothing, formless space, the chaos at the edge of the universe that God didn't bother to fill up and forgot about." Stark pauses, ashing the black cigarette carelessly on the shag carpet. "The 'other guy' had other business, so he delegated babysitting to me. If I were you, I'd just send him a thank-you note. He isn't exactly easy on the eyes."

 

Dean snorts softly as he shifts finally on the bed to stretch out on it. Obviously, by now, the guy wasn't going to attack him or something so Dean lets himself relax a little, practically sinking into the bed.

"So it's just a huge blank space? Huh, okay." Because really, who's he to argue about something like that? Whatever it's starting to make his head hurt anyway. It's a lot to process in a day, especially after one is apparently resurrected from Hell with a brand new body. "Yeah, I'll do that once I find where I wrote down the address," he replies, laying back with his arms pillowed under his head. Christ, to be able to _breathe_ like this again.

 

No, attacking is nearly the last thing on Stark's mind, particularly with his right arm all screwed up. Not that he couldn't easily take a human, even a human _hunter_ , even an _exceptionally skilled_ human hunter, but what would be the point? The fucking angel would probably just resurrect him again.

"Theoretically blank," he responds, then falls silent. Waits, then waits some more, but is pleased - and more than a little surprised - when no more questions are forthcoming. There's a knock on the door, followed by a muffled voice calling "Room service!" and Stark rolls off the bed to answer it, since he is closer. He takes the cart, hands the teenager wheeling it along some cash, and closes the door before the kid ceases staring in horrified curiosity at his scarred face and mud-plastered arm.

Directing the room service cart into the space between the beds, Stark collects his own burger - served with aplomb on a fancy china plate, which he finds ridiculous - and collapses back onto the bed. "Speaking of addresses, you should find out where your brother is. We can leave in the morning; I have a few things to take care of tonight."

 

Well thank god for small favors.

Finally, Dean thinks when the food shows up. He pushes himself up into a sitting position on the edge of the bed as the guy rolls the cart over. He can smell the food and his mouth practically waters. Dean grabs one of his own burgers and takes a giant bite from it and groans a little at the taste. Damn it's good to be back. He's definitely missed the burgers. He grabs a handful of fries and dips them in ketchup he pours for himself and shoves them into his mouth.

His head snaps up though, at the mention of Sam, eyes narrowing immediately. "What do you know about my brother?" He asks, voice hard. Fuck, did something happen to Sam? Christ, he should have tried calling Sam, Bobby at the least, the moment he woke up and realized he was out. "I'm sorry, did you say we? There is no 'we'. Once I'm back to good I'm out of here." Because even he's not dumb enough to not realize he's a little wobbly on his feet yet, what with getting resurrected and put in a new body and all.

 

Maybe Stark eats a little less enthusiastically, but he is glad that the food cleans the last lingering traces of Hell from his nasal passages.

Almost as soon as he suggests it, Stark realizes it was a mistake to mention the brother. Winchester's heart rate spikes, and his breath catches before coming back harder, and Stark doesn't need to see his face to sense the defensiveness there. Like he'd insulted the hunter's girlfriend or something. Pretending he didn't notice so much, he shakes his head passively. "I only know he's your brother, and he's a hunter, and that you're bound to want to find him." Perhaps a little more than that, but who's keeping count?

Stark finishes the last few bites of his burger, tossing the plate back onto the cart afterwards, taking his time in coming up with a response - nothing that's ever been his strong point, because thinking? For people with less firepower. Thoughtfully, he cleans the last traces of burger juice from the corners of his mouth with a napkin, then balls it up and throws it onto the discarded plate. Straightening, he turns to face Winchester, a serious but relatively non-threatening expression in his eyes.

"Look, I'm not saying I'm joining the Winchester fan club, but you were brought back for a reason. And I was asked to help bring you back for a reason. It doesn't end there; I've only paid off part of my debt. Reneging on deals isn't my style, and neither is pissing off someone who might impale me with a fiery sword." Actually, that kind of is his style, but it sounds good. "So we are leaving in the morning, and it'd help if we knew where we're going. So call Sam."

Doubtful it will be that easy to convince Winchester; Stark knows the alpha-male lone-ranger type and knows they don't give up their stubborn insistence on being tough enough to break the world's balls, not without a fight. After all, he wouldn't give in with so little effort, himself.

 

Of course he'll want to call Sam, shoulda been the first thing he did. He doesn't like the thought that this guy knows as much as he does. Though it's not uncommon for the Winchester name to be known in Hunter groups and circles, they had quite a reputation after all and rightly so with the shit they've been through. But he doesn't quite like having to reply on people he doesn't know or trust, and that's pretty much what this guy's asking him to do.

Dean finishes off the first burger through the course of their conversation, then starts on the second. He pauses at the look the guy gives him, brow raising a little. He hates to admit that the guy's probably right. There was a reason he was brought back and neither of them knew it, or he assumes the guy doesn't, at any rate. Though he scowls a little at the thought of having to travel with him for any length of time.

Whatever, it isn't like he can't ditch him somewhere and head out on his own once they're on the road. But he's right, he does need to call Sam. Later, when he's done eating.

 

Though he doesn't trust the easy acquiescence for a second, Stark is glad that Winchester has apparently decided not to argue with him for now. He continues watching silently for a moment. The hunter is ridiculously easy to read, Stark could probably feel out his exact thoughts word-for-word, which isn't something he can do with everyone. The reluctant half-hearted agreement is obviously temporary, and Stark's sure this guy plans on shaking him loose as soon as possible.

Stark releases a little noise of exasperation, but doesn't pursue the ended conversation. Instead, he turns to face the mess on his bed. Finding an empty duffel bag, he starts to load it with anything that might possibly come in useful on this roadtrip to Apocalypseville. The black bone blade he stole from Azazel; the stone Lucifer gave him the last time he saw him; Kasabian's Hand of Glory; Michael's athame; a couple of quirky things he took in trade from Muninn for various jobs. And the more mundane artifacts: lead for drawing circles; salt for ghosts; hodge-podge of herbs and minerals and liquids for potions and spells; silver for just about every-damn-thing. And guns, enough guns for the Confederate Army, various shapes and sizes. A few human-made blades for good measure. He hefts an ancient-looking book into his lap, glowering at it for a moment for not coming in a Cliff-Notes version, but throws it into the bag, as well.

 

As Dean finishes up his food, hungrier than he thought he'd be, he watches curious the things the guy shoves into his bag o'tricks. None of them are really things he recognizes aside from the generalized fact they're weapons. And a lot of them, Jesus. "You plan on arming a task force or somethin' with all that?" Dean asks, unable to help it really. It's a lot of sharp things.

The book has him raising a brow and has the idle thought Sam would love to get his hands on something like that. Which reminds him, he needs to call his baby bro and let him know he's topside again. Dean grabs the phone on the nightstand and pulls it onto the bed beside him, tucking the receiver against his shoulder and head as he dials Sam's number. He frowns when he gets the disconnected message, then tries the other two backups he knows Sam has.

Nothing. All disconnected. He does not like that and it doesn't sit well with him. He hesitates a moment before calling Bobby. "Bobby?" Dean asks when the old man answers. "It's me." A pause. "Dean." He's just a little surprised when Bobby hangs up, but Dean calls again. "Bobby, listen to me," Dean starts, but pauses with the man's reply before he hangs up. Heaving a frustrated sigh, Dean sets the phone down and shoves it away, then stands up and pushes the cart out of the way.

 

Not bothering to turn to look at Winchester, Stark answers simply, "I break things. Extras are usually a good idea." He lifts a bottle of Spiritus Dei, sloshes the liquid around in the opaque glass to check the level, then wraps it in a t-shirt and tucks it away. He'll need to get more from Muninn before leaving.

Only halfway listening to the half-conversation he can hear, Stark piles the remaining clothing atop his mobile armory and zips the bag up. The rest of the crap he'll leave with Kasabian. Needs to stop by Max Overdrive, anyway, to--

"So it's 'we' now?" Stark finally does turn to peer at the other man, an eyebrow arched, the scar cutting through it making it a very sharp arch. "And where are _we_ going?" He doesn't seem averse to leaving quickly, precisely, but he's obviously thinking fast, doing what passes for planning when one is Sandman Slim. Standing, he looks over his preparations, snagging the black blade from the side-pocket of the duffel where he'd left it in easy reach, and starting to the bathroom to get his boots.

 

"Well I doubt I'll be able to get rid of you," Oh though he'll try, "so yeah, 'we' now. So let's get your shit together so we can bounce. I don't wanna waste any time if we don't have to," he says as he pats himself down, surprised to find his wallet but no keys. Huh, well damn. The Impala is probably with Sam anyway. That little shit better not have douched it up.

"South Dakota, to a friend's. He'll be able to find Sam." He hopes, anyway. He'll kick his brother's ass otherwise. How the hell's he supposed to find him if he doesn't keep in touch?

"So c'mon', let's go.... What is your name anyway?"

 

Leaning against the doorjamb of the bathroom, Stark folds his legs up in succession, pulling on one boot and then the other but not bothering to lace them up. There's a conceding nod of agreement for Winchester's first question, because no, he will not be gotten rid of. Even if he might prefer being gotten rid of to driving this fucking ingrate to--

"South Dakota? South _Dakota_?" He sounds bewildered, shocked. "Does that actually exist?" Stark hasn't spent much time out of LA (except all those years in Hell), and he sure as fuck hasn't spent any time in the fly-over states. He continues staring like he's waiting for a punchline while he ambles back to the bed and grabs a hoodie, for lack of a jacket.

Oh, a name. He hadn't given that, had he? More fast thinking, skillfully concealed behind that disbelief. Winchester spent a little time in Hell, and part of it in the arena. Stark knows what kind of rep he's got around those places; the stupid name the Hellions gave him, Sandman Slim, the monster who kills monsters, and he knows Winchester will have heard of it. If he spent any time around any of the fallen angels or high-caste demons, he might have heard the name 'Stark' too, and in the same context. To cap it, the guy's a hunter, and maybe a touch unbalanced - it's not implausible that he might try to take Stark out, if he knew he was Stark.

Normally, Stark wouldn't give a damn about any of this, but it won't go any distance to convincing Winchester to work with him, much less trust him, if the guy starts thinking Stark is the most blasphemous thing since Cain. So in the end, he just says, on his way to the door: "Call me James. And give me fifteen minutes."

 

Dean just gives him a look as if to say 'are you really asking that?' but then just nods and makes a 'get with it' motion with his hand. "Yes, it's a real place, a place we're going and one I'd like to get to some time this century." And okay, he knows he's being kind of a hard ass here but his brother's out there somewhere and he can't get a hold of him. He'll be damned - already was - if he gave his life just so that little shit could get himself killed.

"Right, James," he doesn't look like a James but whatever, a name's a name. It's not like he's never not used his name before, like a hundred and one times. "Fifteen minutes. If you're not back by then I'm leaving on my own." It isn't so much of a threat as a statement. He doesn't have time for pussyfooting around.

 

" _Weird_ ," Stark says, in response to South Dakota being a real place. "Next you'll be telling me that ghosts and vampires actually exist." There's a little bit of a grin for that, pulling at the scars on his right cheek and dimpling them, as he backs out the hotel door.

He needn't actually use the door, of course, but like Hell he's going to show his whole hand. There's a rapid jump to Vidocq and Allegra's apartment, and another to Max Overdrive to see Kas and leave the hotel sheet full of extra extras in the little loft he's called home. One last jump to Bamboo House of Dolls to say goodbye to Carlos and find a good bootleg leather jacket. He'd like to stop by Kinski's clinic, but he knows it's pointless; neither the Doc nor Candy have been there in weeks.

So instead, he walks along Hollywood Boulevard from the video store until finding a likely-looking vehicular victim. Precisely fourteen minutes after leaving the motel, he's parking a monstrous silver '65 Lincoln Continental, beautifully restored with suicide doors and black pinstriping, outside the door. Shoving the door open, he re-enters the room - now wearing an ankle-length black leather rifle coat atop the hoodie - and heads for the bed, collecting both duffel bags. Without stopping, he spins on his heel and gives Dean an impatient sort of look. "Haven't even tried to ditch me yet? Bad form."

As if Stark gave him time to.

He pulls open one of the back doors, backwards to the way the front ones unfold, and tosses in first one bag, then the other, leaving them on the backseat with a third bag of the things he acquired in his speedy errand-running. Slams the door and reclaims the drivers seat, once more retrieves the black blade from his boot, and jams the point into the ignition with a twist to start the monster motor growling.

 

Dean opens his mouth but just snaps it shut and scowls, though his lips twitch up just a fraction at the smart ass reply. When James, though he doubts that's his real name, is gone Dean heads outside a few minutes later to see where they're at. Off the bat it's no where he recognizes and that bothers him. He likes knowing where he is, where he's been and where he's going. He hates being caught off guard like this. It's warm and balmy so he thinks maybe they're in the south somewhere.

It's about ten minutes before he's back in the room with no other idea where he's at. The front desk was out of newspapers and he hadn't wanted to 'ask' where he was, not wanting to come off as someone who needed help or was hurt, even though he'd checked himself out in the mirror and whoever put his body back together did a real fine job. Not a scratch or scar on him.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, his knee bounces, antsy, as he waits for James to return. He's tried Sam's numbers again and any other ones - even his dads old cell - but none of them are working. When the guy returns, in the door and almost out it again, Dean's on his feet. Fifteen almost to the minute. The hell could he have done in only fifteen minutes?

"I had a feeling I wouldn't have been able to get far enough away if I tried," he says, then follows him out the door. He takes pause at the car, whistles as he walks around it to the passenger side. Somehow he doesn't think it's actually James', but he's gotta admit the guy's got style. He isn't even going to ask what he had to do to get this sweet ride. In the passenger seat, he raises a brow as he watches James turn the engine over. Inventive. And yeah, definitely not his car.

 

Well, it's his car _now_. For the time being. And after he ditches it, the cops might even return it to the bereft real owner.

Stark checks the mirrors, then backs out of the parking lot and onto a side-street. Within minutes they're back on Hollywood Boulevard, probably answering Winchester's question about where they are; if that's not enough, the gigantor letters spelling out HOLLYWOOD on the hill definitely gives it away. Though it isn't the typical fire season, the huge sign is back-lit with burning palms and jacarandas, just one more indication that LA is going (literally) completely to Hell.

It feels weird, leaving town at such a critical time. Who knows if there will even be an LA to come back to after this is over? On the other hand, if there's no LA, most likely everyone will be dead. Luckily it's early evening; late enough that the worker bees have gone home, but early enough that the club kids haven't come out to choke the roads into uselessness.

Stark acquired what he could from his revolving-door trip through the Room, but there are two things he didn't get. Therefore, he pulls off the boulevard into the parking lot of a small convenience store. The Lincoln is parked by one of the pumps, and the blade is again removed from the ignition before Stark gets out. He throws a "Fill it up" in Dean's direction, heading for the tiny store with no explanation. While Stark's behavior hasn't done a total 180, it's clear that his lethargy and dismissiveness have vanished in favor of focus and energy. Within only a few minutes, he's coming back out of the store, stowing some things in the pockets of his new coat.

 

It's when Dean looks around that he catches sight of the Hollywood sign and raises a brow. "We're in frigging California?" He asks, though he had figured by the weather they were probably in some coast city he hadn't expected it to be Los Angeles. But whatever as long as they're on their way out and hey, at least now he can say he's been to L.A. When they stop so soon after hitting the road he side-eyes James a little and frowns.

Almost, he almost doesn't and just sits there to be a dick but then he gets out to fill the tank. The faster they can get out of here and on the road - for real - the better. He needs to find Sam, it's like an itch he can't scratch not knowing if his brother's okay or not. When the pump clicks, signalling the full tank he puts the hose back on the hook and gets in the car. Thankfully he doesn't have to wait long for James to come back, brow raising a little at whatever he'd gotten inside.

 

Stark rounds the car to get in again and starts it up in the same questionable manner. He drives almost mechanically, finding the 101S exit and taking it, for just a second, before merging onto another interstate, and after a few moments, exiting onto yet another interstate, apparently oblivious of the hell-for-leather traffic on all sides as he stares out the windshield with that unfocused look. Wrapped up in deep thoughts, or maybe just trying to remember all the lyrics to Our House, which was playing in the convenience store.

Finally, after about half an hour of rapid street-changing, Stark aims the behemoth onto the I-15, settles back against the seat, which resembles an overstuffed sofa more than any modern car seat, and side-glances at Winchester curiously. "So, South Dakota. Couldn't find your brother?" This is clearly a rhetorical question; Stark doesn't give much time for an answer. "You think the chances of him still being in the country are good?"

 

It's a little too quiet for Dean so he breaks his own rule - not like it's his car anyway - and turns on the radio to find some decent classic rock station. He keeps it low but loud enough he can quietly hum along to the words. Surely he's missed this, being out on the open road like this, with the purr of an engine beneath his feet and music blaring from the speakers. The only thing missing is Sam and the Impala.

His leg bounces a little every now and then, not really used to being in the passenger seat of a car or with someone he doesn't know, having to trust them. When Sam's mentioned Dean opens his mouth to reply but then gives the man a disbelieving look. "Of course they are, he wouldn't leave the country, and no I couldn't. All of Sam's phones and backups are out of service." And Bobby didn't believe he was back, though not he can blame the man.

 

The radio receives a distrustful look when it gets turned on, but so long as it stays away from Pink Floyd and the Grateful Dead, Stark might not have to smash it. He makes a noise of understanding for Winchester's response, canting his head to the side some. "Yeah, but, you _were_ gone for a couple months. Maybe he just had to switch phones." 

The silence didn't bother Stark nearly so much as the tension and discomfort pouring from the man in the passenger seat, which is much more noticeable now that Stark's started noticing things outside his head. This time, he actually turns his head to watch Winchester, noting every tiny, invisible-to-the-human-eye twitch of leg muscles, the incessant eye movement, the way the jaw flexes impatiently.

Giving in after a couple of miles, Stark inexplicably directs the car into the break-down lane, but leaves it running as he gets out. Waits for a few trucks to go by, then circles around to the passenger side and yanks the door open. "Scoot over. You drive."

 

"Maybe," Dean replies, and he can only hope that's what it is. They usually leave at least one of the backups on in case one needs to get a hold of the other and if Sam had any hope of getting him back then he would have kept one of them on. It makes his stomach knot up to think that Sam might have just moved on. Had burned or buried him and just gave up or kept going without looking back.

When the car suddenly pulls over, he whips his head around as James gets out and when the door's opened on his side he quickly scoots over into the driver's side, instantly feeling better and relaxing behind the wheel.

Much better. Much, yes.

Looking behind him and making sure there's no traffic yet, he pulls back out onto the road and continues driving, feeling so much more at home now, despite it not being his baby. He always felt better when he was driving.

 

Yes, _much_ better. They're not what anyone could call comfortable with each other, but at least Stark doesn't feel so much like he's riding with a particularly twitchy cockroach with a temper, anymore. Digging into a coat-pocket, Stark lights himself another Malediction and manages to untense somewhat, himself.

Come to that, just what the hell is he riding with? Is Winchester a zombie, a particularly solid ghost, or just some unknown quantity? Stark turns his head, cocking it a bit to the side narrowing his eyes curiously as he looks Winchester over more closely. The inspection culminates in a blunt (and possibly confusing), "Are you the same?" Because really, one has to wonder - it is an entirely new body the angel gave him.

 

Dean's tapping his fingers on the steering wheel to the beat of the song playing on the radio, silently mouthing the words. He's more relaxed now, more comfortable. He knows where he's going even if he doesn't exactly know who he's with. Not that that'll be a problem for long. He plans to ditch James the first chance he gets. He'll get there faster on his own anyway, can't chance bringing some unknown to their small fold.

The question catches him off guard and he glances over once before looking back to the road. "The fuck does that mean, am I the same? Course I am. I'm still me." He felt the same, really. A little... off kilter maybe, from coming back from the dead and what not. He doesn't think he's a zombie, he doesn't have the urge to eat the guy's brains or anything. He's just a little tired and a lot anxious.

 

Stark smirks at the blatant defensiveness in that quick response, but stops staring, turning to look out the window though the night is dark enough, and they're near enough to the edge of the suburbs, that there isn't much to see there. "Yeah, you feel the same, it's still your soul - I'm sure of _that_ \- just like before." He pauses a second, then qualifies. "With some added post-traumatic hell syndrome, or whatever. But mostly like before. 

"The rest can't be all you, though. It made you out of, y'know, nothing, so what you were before isn't what you are now. Scars, wounds, muscle-memory, that all musta been erased, some." This all sounds merely philosophical, because like fuck Stark knows for sure what that angel did, exactly; he's not trying to actually get any answers from Winchester. He flicks ashes out the wing mirror absently, musing silently. What else is he supposed to do on the road to Vegas, with an uncertain resurrected creature and a radio playing shitty 80's rock?


	2. Maybe a Witch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean Winchester and his unknown cohort visit Vegas, where he learns a few things - not enough - about James, and has not as much fun as one might have hoped.

It doesn't take any sort of super-sensory perception to realize when they've made it to Vegas. The billions of lights on the buildings make it nearly as bright as daytime, and the noise itself is sufficient to wake the dead. Stark fights wakefulness for a few moments, but eventually gives in to the inevitable and straightens up from where he's been reclining in the spacious backseat. Naturally, the first thing he does is light a cigarette. Then he clambers over the front seat and drops into the passenger position, peering around curiously for landmarks. It doesn't take long.

"Take the second left, up there." Stark waves with his cigarette in lieu of pointing, then continues scoping the place out. After a moment, he adds, somewhat nonsequitorially: "You really gotta admire a man bold enough to take huge amounts of acid in a place like this."

With further terse directions, he leads Winchester to a parking garage beneath a hotel with which he's familiar. It's, expectedly, gaudy and bright and something like twenty stories high, hidden behind a French Quarter facade. Once the Lincoln is parked, Stark opens his door and rolls out into the glamor-less garage with an absurd sort of grace, stretching. He unfolds the back door, as well, to heft out the bags from the floorboard.

 

All Dean can think is thank fucking God they made it in once piece. Luckily James slept most of the time and that left Dean to his thoughts milling around in his head. The bright lights and neon signs welcome them as they head into the city. It's certainly been awhile since he's been here, not in years he thinks. 

When James wakes up and crawls back into the front seat he acknowledges the directions with a grunt and follows them, side-eyeing the man as he drives. He snorts a little laugh at that and has to agree. It must be a trip with all the blinking and flashing neon lights. When he parks the car and gets out, he looks around and can't help but ask.

"Can you really afford a place like this?" Because Dean sure as hell wouldn't be able to, even if he had saved up whatever earnings he made for a year.

 

Once his bags are in hand, Stark slams the back door and ducks back through the front, to grab the black knife from the ignition. Then he closes that door, not bothering to lock it. Probably he won't drive the car again.

There's a little bit of a smirk for the question; it appears he's finally waking up completely. "Of course not. I'm just gonna break into a suite." This is said in that tone Stark has that could be serious, but could just as easily be sarcastic; even the few people he's close to usually have trouble making out the difference.

But it is apparently sarcasm, because when they take the elevator up to the ground floor of the hotel - with the main casino floor flashing and ringing and making those falling-coin noises all around - Stark approaches the front desk. The concierge eyes him up, and Dean behind him, obviously coming to his conclusions and offering a faked, polite, but still condescending smile. The tuxedo'd idiot might as well have a cash register for a brain, and he's clearly not expecting much from these two.

Stark's mother always did say he constantly exceeded expectations.

Leaning offensively on the fancy marble counter, Stark nods towards the concierge shortly. "Reservations."

"Of course," the concierge says, nearly as dismissive. "Name...sir?"

The 'sir' comes very reluctantly. Stark just smiles, vulpine. "Beherit." 

The penguin clicks at his keyboard, checks the monitor. Then his eyes seem to grow three sizes bigger, just like the Grinch's heart, and flick rapidly between the monitor and the proposed guests a few times. "Ahh...welcome to the Orleans hotel and casino, sir." 'Sir' is a lot more emphatic this time, and the voice is pure smarm. "Let me call you a valet. Do you have other luggage we can fetch? We'd be happy--"

"Don't," Stark cuts him off. "Just give me the keys."

The concierge falls all over himself to follow this order, passing over a pair of cards, along with a glossy brochure about the hotel's current entertainments. "Here you are, Mr. Beherit. And please, if there is anything I can do, don't hesitate to call."

Stark takes the keys, and leaves the desk without another word, heading past the casino for the bank of elevators. Only when he's about ten yards away from the front desk does he allow himself a small, but more genuine grin.

 

Dean's pretty sure that was sarcasm, but what he's seen so far from James he's not really sure. Honestly he doesn't care as long as it keeps them off the radar and they'll only be here a day or two at most, so he might as well make the most of it while he's here. Who knows when he'll come down this way again. Probably not for a long time.

He follows the man into the elevator, leaning against the wall as it lifts them to the lobby, the ding of the doors opening signalling their arrival. He hates that he's being led around but he's got nothing better to do anyway until they get back on the road again, so he follows James up to the counter, scowling at the look the man behind the front desk gives them.

Fucker.

The reaction the guy has makes his brows raise as he all but falls over himself to do what he can for James. It makes him wonder just who this guy is that has this asshat freaking out. When Dean turns to leave he gives the man a sharp smile and a little salute before falling into pace beside James.

"What the hell was that all about?"

 

In the elevator, Stark leans against one chrome wall as he waits for it to ascend all the very many stories to the top. He shrugs dismissively, though the grin still hovers around the corners of his mouth. "I made arrangements." Yes, in the fifteen minutes Dean gave him to wrap up affairs in LA before bolting. He narrows one eye, thoughtful for a moment. "Ya know, this is actually the first time I've been to Vegas since I was legal. Too bad we aren't staying long."

When the elevator finally reaches its destination, Stark heads out, traipsing along the dizzyingly-patterned carpet down a short hall to a pair of black lacquered double doors, the lintel over them bearing a sign in green and gold reading 'Crescent Suite'. The key works, so he doesn't have to break in after all. The main room is large, of course, with muted colors and expensive-looking furniture, a huge picture window on the far wall giving an aerial view of the strip a few miles away, all lit up. Unsurprisingly, Stark heads straight for the bar and starts plundering it, speaking as if talking to himself. "Hell yes, it's good to be king." He shortly emerges with a bottle of top-shelf whisky.

 

"Uh huh," was all he says to that as they head into yet another elevator. He would have preferred stairs but guessing where about the room was the elevator was fine for now. He raises a brow at that, curious. "Just how old are you, then?" He asks, not bothering to hide his curiosity.

When they get out he follows at a sedate pace and is only a little surprised when the door actually opens under the keycard. He almost expected James to break into it just as he'd said down in the parking garage. When he steps inside he lets out a low whistle. "Don't spare any expense, do you?" Dean asked as he moved further into the room, looking around what seems to be the living room.

Walking up to the window he peers out over the skyline, a myriad of lights blinking up at him. Looking back he snorted softly and smirked a little. "They got any more of that back there?"

 

Stark sort of mentally freezes at that first question; no smart-ass remarks come to mind, even though it shouldn't be hard. "Thirty." He answers as if this is something of a surprise to him, and truth be told, it is a little disorienting. He hadn't been too concerned with emotional maturation while stuck Downtown; sometimes he still feels nineteen.

Shaking his head to dismiss the uncomfortable feeling, he looks over the bar again and then around the rest of the room, clearly looking for distraction. "Apparently I don't." Eyeing a somewhat out of place and completely distasteful Bosch print on the opposite wall. How fitting. Stark waves a hand at the bar in invitation as he heads for a small conference table. "If they don't have it here, my minion at the front desk will probably beam it up post-haste."

Reaching the table, he roots around a pocket of the frock coat to unearth a folded map of the continental U.S., the sort that never folds back together the same way once you open it. Tossing it on the table, he shucks the coat and drops it over a chair, then snags one of his duffel bags before sitting down.

Then, first things first, he cracks the bottle of Black Busch, not bothering with a glass. After a satisfyingly long pull from the bottle, he starts to unfold the map. "You have anything of your brother's on you? A photo, a memento, even a gift might work..." The map spread out, he unzips the duffel and starts to search through it, first piling unfolded clothes onto another of the chairs.

 

Thirty? Little younger than himself then, not that it's surprising. Dean wanders over to the bar, ducking down to root through and surprised by the selection in stock. He hasn't seen this good of liquor in a long time. Normally when he hits up the store he gets the cheapest he can find and while it's certainly not even close to the best, it does it's job. Shifting around the bottles, he finds a bottle of Jim Beam and pulls it forward, looking it over before picking it up and standing. Turning, he grabs a glass, blows it out out of habit and peels off the seal, then twists the cap open to pour himself a drink.

Grabbing the glass and taking a drink, he picks up the bottle as well and walks over to where James now is at the table. He sets the bottle down on the edge and takes a seat in one of the other chairs, kicking his feet up on the edge of the desk as he allows himself to relax. "Of Sam's?" He doesn't think he does. He has a few pictures in his wallet but... hmm. Sitting up a little he pulls out his wallet and flits through the pictures tucked away in the back.

A grin lights up his face as he spots a picture in the back, one of when they were younger; Dean roughly seventeen and Sam thirteen, standing with their dad and for once all three looked mildly happy. He ran his thumb over it a few times before handing it over, though he pulled his hand back for a moment. "Do not ruin it," the man said dangerously before finally holding it out. "What are you going to do with it, anyway?"

 

While Winchester approaches and sits, Stark finds his necessities, which in this case, aren't much. The stick of lead works to draw a double-circle on the map, which has been weighted at the corners by odds and ends from the bag to keep it from folding up again. He adds a few words and symbols here, Latin mixing with more arcane signs but, thanks to Stark's chicken-scratch scrawling, bearing not much more resemblance to any modern alphabet. He only looks up when Winchester speaks again.

Taking the photo cautiously between two fingers with a serious but sort of distracted nod, he looks it over briefly. "This'll work." At any other time, the photo's contents might garner more commentary, but for now, the blood and weapons and happy-family smiles only earn a moderately amused, "'s touching." Setting the photo to the top of the circle, Stark looks his preparations over briefly and nods to himself. Improvising a sort of dowsing pendulum from a small throwing knife with a chain looped through the pierced-work hilt, he sits forward to concentrate, holding the knife suspended over the map.

Though it could be used easily for nefarious means, there's nothing inherently hostile about a locator spell, so no words have to be spoken aloud. Instead, it's more of a focusing, narrowing will to a sharp point and directing it with mental commands. Within a few seconds, the knife begins to spin, seemingly on its own. It wavers over a few different places, first to the north of the map, then lower, and easterly. For a moment it sways pendant over the midwest in general. Stark narrows his eyes, mental concentration kicking up to a barely-audible tuneless humming. The knife shivers then, sudden as a lightning blast, veers away west sharply before the chain jerks itself from Stark's fingers. He snatches his hand back to his chest instinctively, as if his fingers were burned, while the knife buries itself a few inches deep in the table.

Recovering from the surprise easily, Stark leans over the map. Seeing that the point is embedded centered in the state of Nevada, he snorts emphatically. "Sonofabitch." This is all he has time to get out, before the knife burns literally red hot, igniting the map. With those fast reflexes of his, Stark snatches the photo before the flames can get close and offers it back to Winchester calmly, like this is all normal behavior.

 

Dean watches curiously and a little warily. He's used location spells before though he hates using them as he hates pretty much all other magic. Humans used magic and humans were crazy sons of bitches in his book and he'd rather deal with a frigging pack of Wendigos than a human with a magic book. It takes him a moment but he realizes that James means to find Sam and Dean doesn't know if he likes that at all. He'd planned on getting to Bobby's then ditching the guy to haul ass and find his brother.

But this guy who he doesn't know and certainly doesn't trust knowing where Sam is? Yeah no, Dean no likey. He has little time to say anything, though when the knife spins and pulls from the man's grasp and slams into the map and the table. It's sudden enough that he sits up sharply and stares at it, then jerks back himself when it lights up.

Dean snatches the picture back, smooths it over to make sure there are no scorch marks, then glares at James. "The fuck was that? What the fuck just happened? What does that mean? And the next time you want to use that witchcraft fuckery you let me know so I can get the hell outta Dodge. I don't deal with witches."

 

Rather than try to put the fire out, Stark takes the opportunity to light a cigarette off the flames, waiting for them to extinguish themselves. This they do in short order - the map is obliterated, but the table beneath is untouched, excepting where the knife has embedded itself.

Though he's probably planning on making some explanation, Winchester's little tirade stops him. "Witches? You see me flying around on a broom? Talking to a black cat, or chanting over a cauldron? I'm not a fucking witch." From the flat tone of his voice, it's obvious that he really is ticked off this time, instead of just faking. Reaching a hand over, Stark loops his pinkie finger through the hole on the knife's hilt and plucks it from the table, but only to toss it back into his bag. "If I heard right, you're the one who made a deal with the devil. Seems you fit the bill better than I do, Mrs. Proctor."

 

"I don't know what the fuck you _are_ so for all I know you could be," he snaps back. Or a demon, a skinwalker or a myriad of other creatures. Christ, he wishes he had some salt or holy water. He's getting those things the moment he can, a silver blade on top of it.

His lips upturn in a sneer at the mention of his deal. "I made that deal to save my brother's life, asshole. That's different," he bites out. It was always different when they do it. Witches were bad, evil, he's never met a good witch and he doubts he ever will. "And I would do it again and again to save him. They're not the same, that witchy spell and my deal. It's different."

 

"Ahh, the I-did-it-for-my-family defense. Lucifer likes that one, I bet. He probably even gives you time-and-a-half on your hours of torment." And just as quickly as it appeared, Stark's ire seems to have dissipated. If he's irritated now, it's only in an amused fashion. Likely this is because Winchester himself is so easy to rile.

Leaning back, he recaptures the bottle of Bushmill's whisky and takes another long drink, before setting it down and continuing to smoke. "But you're right, it's not the same. For one thing, nobody gets hurt with the spell I just did. On the other hand...mine was completely useless. Someone's put some sort of protection around your brother, or cloaking, so the spell rebounded. I could try something else, but - " Another pause, for another swig of whisky. " - wouldn't want you to get all 'Bell, Book and Candle' on my witchy ass."

 

"I don't give a rat's ass what the devil thinks or wants or does. What I did I did for my brother, he deserves his life," more than he does, he almost says, because that's how he thinks. Sam deserves more of a life than he does and there's a part of him, albeit small, that hopes he got away from it - though the bigger, selfish part of him hopes that Sam's still out here fighting the good fight and looking for a way to get him out.

He cocks a brow at that, grabbing the bottle he'd been drinking from himself and taking a couple swigs from it. "Protection? The hell would he need protection from. You think the... whoever put me back together did that?" It worries him that someone thinks his brother is in danger enough that he needed to be protected by an outside source, a strong on at that. "You're right, you don't. We'll leave in a day or two to head up to South Dakota. I got a friend up there who'll know where my brother is." Once he's convinced Bobby he's the real deal.

 

"Oh, stop. I'm starting to tear up." He sounds entirely sincere. No, really. But he does seem somewhat relieved to get off the Lifetime-special topic, when Winchester changes it.

"No, The Whoever definitely didn't do that," and Stark truly does sound sincere about this. "I didn't mean protection in general, just a protection from seeking spells. Someone's trying to hide him, either for his own good, or theirs. Someone with some power." He pauses again, as if for thought, then adds pointedly: "Maybe a witch."

Stubbing his cigarette out in a convenient ashtray, Stark tears the tape on the bandaging on his burned arm, and starts to unwind the gauze, using the material to wipe up the traces of the weird herbal mixture he covered the burns with.

 

Dean rolls his eyes at the others tone, because he doesn't really think that James gives a shit and he's sure the guy has his own agenda in all of this some how. The guy can't be doing it just outta the goodness of his heart, that's for sure.

"Well ain't that peachy. Perfect, looks like I'll have to find him the old fashioned way." Dean sneers at the mention of witches. Fucking witches, he hates witches. Monsters he can deal with, people are just plain crazy and stupid. Though he certainly doesn't like the fact that something powerful and possibly old is hiding his brother, keeping him from being found. But like hell he's gonna let that stop him.

He watches, curiously, as James pulls the bandage off and tells himself he doesn't care. Doesn't give a shit. He's only going along with this until he gets to Bobby's, then he's ditching the guy to find his brother, won't need his help then. But for now he'll go along with it.

"Gimme one a'them key things, I'm hittin' the strip."

 

That's a pretty good assumption to make; Stark doesn't do much of anything out of the goodness of his heart. Or if he does, he'd deny it under pain of death.

"Great idea." The flat, unreadable tone again, sarcasm or seriousness or plain indifference, it's hard to tell. "Even though that's probably what they want you to do." Of course Winchester will attempt to find his brother anyway. Nothing else could be expected.

Stark doesn't look at the hunter, concentrating just a little too much on cleaning the gunk from his arm. Tossing the wadded bandaging onto the singed remains of the map, he swipes a few last smears of alchemical goo from his skin and looks it over. Though it's only been around six hours, eight at most, since he sustained the injury, he's glad to see that it has healed completely. The forearm is back to its usual scarred, lined state, only perhaps a tint of pinkness remaining from scraping at it with the bandaging.

That next comment finally does divert his focus. Turning his head, he looks at Winchester doubtfully, scanning his face silently for a long moment. Well aware that Winchester plans to slip the leash as soon as possible, Stark can also tell that it isn't his primary concern at this exact moment. And why not celebrate a little after escaping Hell? 

Stark lifts his hips from the chair to slide the cards from his back pocket, and offers one to Winchester. Only to pull it back as soon as the other man reaches for it. "Don't think I won't find you, if you take off. Vegas isn't as crowded as Hell, and it'll be much easier to navigate." A couple of seconds to let that sink in, then he extends the card again with a last piece of advice: "And stay away from the men's rooms in the Golden Nugget if you value your heterosexuality."

 

"I don't give a shit what they want or don't want, we're finding Sammy." And that was that. Cause right now finding Sam is way more important than whatever the hell is going on with him being back from the dead. At least he's not a zombie.

He waits for James to dig the card out, then walks over to snatch it up only to be pulled back. Dean scowls because he hates shit like that though he listens and rolls his eyes. "I'm not takin' off - not outta the city anyway. You gonna give it to me or what." Nope, not retracting that now that he's said it. When the card is able to be snatched up he does so quickly and pockets it before heading to the door and opening it up.

Dean pauses and looks back, unsure if the guy is joking or not. He doesn't think so. "Good to know, thanks." Then he's out the door and down the hall. He wastes no time in getting out of the hotel and finding a bar so he can order a few drinks, downing them in one- two gulps. The others go more slowly, not wanting to get too drunk too quick, besides he wants to enjoy Vegas and all it's trappings.

 

 

Stark may have been planning to do something along the same vein as enjoying Vegas' trappings, but it isn't long after Dean leaves that he gets a call on his cell. Expecting Kasabian with some news on research, Stark's surprised when it's Lucifer's voice on the other end, instead. Terse and commanding as ever, Mr. MacHeath tells James that he's requested and required to meet him in his usual suite at the Chateau Marmont with all due dispatch. It's lucky that the Key is still with his chest, because Stark isn't sure how he would explain that he can't meet the Devil in LA, because he's in Vegas, carrying out a mission on which he was put by an angel.

Not surprisingly, Lucifer knows of said mission. More surprisingly, the infernal majesty doesn't disapprove. In fact, he endorses it, and instructs James to carry on, and offers some further information on the Winchester duo, and requests updates on the progress. Stark is grateful that he left Kas back in LA - at least he can choose, personally, what information passes along to Lucifer instead of having a dismembered head spying on him. To seal the deal, Lucifer gives Stark a bottle of Aqua Regia, Hell's favorite moonshine, and sends him off.

It's very late when Stark returns to Vegas, but the town is more active than ever. He steps out of the Room and into the parking garage, not wanting to poof into the hotel room in case Winchester is back from his roving.

Reaching their suite, Stark opens the door with his key-card. The place is dark, darker than when he left it, and there's something playing on the surround-sound stereo that he's uncomfortably certain is AC/DC. 80's rock? _Really?_

Stark stalks further into the room, fully intending to change the music and berate Winchester for having no taste, but his train of thought is derailed by the sight he's met with on the balcony. Winchester is in the hot tub with a girl who probably just walked off the stage of some burlesque show, judging by her overdone make-up and topless state. Those have to be fake. James spends a moment staring, debating several remarks, but eventually interrupts them with a brusque: "Get a fucking room. This one's mine." 

Of course, of course, Stark has been back from Hell for nearly a year and the closest he's come to getting a piece of ass was a kiss from a Jade; meanwhile, this Harlequin-Romance-Cover-Model isn't even back for a whole day and he's already got a stripper on the hook. Fucking typical.

Turning away, Stark stalks towards the bedroom of the suite, fully prepared to do his best at emptying Lucifer's bottle of Aqua Regia. He's nowhere near prepared to be attacked from behind by a mostly-naked, slippery, surprisingly strong Tempest Storm - but that's what happens, because his life just works that way.

Grasping the wrist of the arm wrapped unexpectedly around his throat, Stark removes it by main force and pulls the woman off his back, twisting at the same time. Not wanting to be too rough with the girl, who is obviously on some major drugs judging from her inhuman strength and eyes so blown that the black pupils seem to engulf them, he shoves her into the recently-scorched table and traps her there. His right hand still holds her arm captive, but the left presses against her sternum to pin her against the table. Good thing she's flexible; Stark's maneuvering has her bent at an almost 90-degree angle. 

"What's the deal, sugar, 's it two-for-one night?" The stripper predictably tries to knee him in the crotch, but he quickly evades, turning his hips sideways and shoving the closer one into her lower stomach for further security. "Not saying I don't like it rough, but a little foreplay would be nice."

 

Dean makes his rounds to the bars and clubs, stopping at another strip club in a long line of them, seated near the stage watching as the woman shakes her ass as she drops her top. His brows raise when she sees him and grins. She's off stage before he can make heads or tales of that look. Though it's not like he's never fucked a stripper before but usually he's the one to approach them, not the other way around - which is exactly what she does as she gives him an impromptu lapdance and tells him to meet her outside in fifteen.

He does and he's not disappointed. She's wrapped around him as he leads her back to the motel, murmuring how impressed she is and yeah, she's a good actress, this one. But he takes it because he needs this distraction for now. Inside the hotel room they move toward the hot tub, filled up and steaming, clothes being torn off as they make their way over, hands and lips roaming. She straddles him once they're seated in the water and he's got his hands all over body, squeezing her ass as she moves over him, mouth at her breasts as she tips her head back.

Dean hears the door but it doesn't quite register until he hears James' annoyed voice and he can't help but laugh. The girl, however, has a completely different reaction. Her eyes go black and Dean swears loudly but before he can do anything she headbutts him hard as she scrambles up off of him. He curses again, rubbing his head where she hit him. Stumbling up out of the tub he at least snags his boxers to tug them back on before following her only to see her attack James, watching as the man pins her down to the table.

"What the fucking, fuck!"

 

The girl laughs mockingly at Stark's quips, which doesn't really surprise him, because he is a funny sonofabitch. However, her verbal response does take him by surprise. " _Please_ , Stark. I wouldn't fuck you with Azazel's dick, no matter how much you begged for it." 

His mind might be shocked and bewildered, but his body reacts without any input from upstairs. Transferring the hold from her chest to her throat, Stark shoves the girl down, hard, her head making a hollow noise against the heavy wood of the table. He leans with her, eyes narrow and colder than ever. "Sure you've got me at a disadvantage, darlin'. Have we met?"

"Didn't expect you to still be with Dean," the girl-demon goes on. "I guess it is two-for-one, after all. Imagine how pleased my new master will be when I can hand over both of you."

Stark curses to himself. He expected to encounter Hellions somewhere along their road, but this is sooner than he'd hoped for. "Your new master?" Though speaking as if casually, his mind is all over the place. He can't get to the knife in his boot right now, not without releasing her, and that's undoubtedly a bad idea.

"Yes, you killed my previous one. Under orders, from your previous master. You thought no one was watching, but I was there." Any playful tone the stripper had is gone, now; she's furious, but nowhere near as calm as Stark is. "I was there, and I saw exactly what you did. So when Dean here, and his friends, opened a gateway to Earth, I took my chance. I was going to find that girl of yours, and give her an instant replay."

Whatever Stark's face was doing before, it's worse now; harder, more intent, and he's maybe losing his cool, too. His teeth are clenched so hard that he can't reply, and the hand around the girl's throat is so tight that, were she human, she would have been fully asphyxiated by now.

"How disappointed I was to find that Mason had already done away with her. But this is okay, this is better. Do you think Alice will be waiting for you back in Hell?"

And that's enough. It's too much. Stark's mind shuts down somewhere around hearing Alice's name, and he jerks the girl off the table by the chokehold. Once she's in the air, her feet off the ground, Stark barks a single Hellion word that sends her flying across the room to crash through a pane of glass and onto the balcony. Once's she's landed, Stark is crouching to bring the black blade from his boot, fully intending on leaving her body in small, undead chunks, to suffer eternally. As he takes measured steps across the room, he doesn't appear to even see Winchester.

 

Stark. _Stark._

That name sets off all sorts of warning bells though he's not too keen on why. Dean knows he's heard it before but he can't remember where. In the Pit? The ring? On the Rack? He's not sure but right now isn't the time for trying to figure it out. He'll do that when there's not a demon in their hotel room aiming to kill one of them - possibly both.

He can't just stand there, needs to do something but he's got no salt, no weapons of any kind that could kill a demon and the Colt's probably locked up in the Impala which is with Sam, whom he can't even locate. But before he can even come up with a plan, James' has her up in the air and across the room in a blink, crashing through the wall of glass and onto the balcony. 

Nope. James is certainly not human and that makes him more nervous now that he knows. The guy is either a demon like the bitch over there or he's a witch - though with how pissed the guy had been at the mention of being one, he's gonna go with demon. Fucking demons. Fuckers looked like everyone else.

Seeing the knife flash, Dean's at his side in a second and grabs his arm to stop him. "There's a human in there, man, she's being possessed!" And the only thing that works on a demon to get them out is an exorcism, and that's just what he does. He exorcises the bitch back to hell.

"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica," Dean starts, voice rough and full of intent. He watches as the woman thrashes and screams but doesn't stop. "Ergo, draco maledicte. Ecclesiam tuam securi tibi facias libertate servire, te rogamus, audi nos."

The screaming ceases as she throws her head back and black smoke erupts from her mouth, billowing down where it seems to seep into the ground, the demon returning to hell. The woman lays there, unconscious but alive if the rise and fall of her chest is anything to go by.

"Christ," he huffs out. "I can't even get laid without everything going to shit."

 

Even when Winchester grabs onto his arm, Stark only vaguely seems to notice him, giving him a hard-faced but brief glare as he effortlessly yanks his arm out of the hunter's grasp. The idea that a human woman is being possessed doesn't carry much weight with him at the moment; though he'd normally feel bad about it, all Stark can think of is carving up the bitch's face until it can never bear that gloatingly self-satisfied smile again.

How long are these bastards (by which, he means the ENTIRE world) going to use Alice to get to him?

Probably as long as he keeps letting it happen.

The rapid-fire burst of Latin catches Stark off guard, and he stops halfway between Winchester and the demon bitch, watching with the same dark, blank expression as the woman shakes and screeches and eventually vomits up what looks to be a years' worth of LA smog in a manner of seconds. 

And then Stark is left with an unconscious, nude burlesque dancer; a seemingly only mildly disgruntled hunter; and a fury that's still making his limbs tremble. He can't quite force his jaw to unlock itself yet, so he simply glares at the stereo console, which dies in the middle of AC/DC's "Going Down" with a pathetic warble and a couple of sparks. 

Looking from the stereo to the stripper, then to Winchester, confused but much too angry to admit it, Stark exhales a forceful huff and stalks back across the room to reclaim the bottle of Aqua Regia he'd set down. He uses the black blade to spear the cork out of its pretentious cut-glass resting place and swallows the liquid down like it's water. A few moments of this, and he can finally speak.

"I'm going to sleep. When I wake up, we're leaving." With his tone, it's clear Stark is still pissed, and if it's not directly at Winchester, the guy at least comes in as a misdirected outlet.

 

Dean just stands there, silent and buzzing with adrenaline as he watches and waits. He has no idea what for but he'd be pretty surprised if the whole room didn't light up in flames from how pissed off James - Stark? - is right now. Whoever Alice is... he definitely doesn't wanna be on his bad side.

"Yeah, sure, you do that. I'll go clean up the... mess," Dean says, gesturing to the woman on the balcony. When the guy walks off, Dean doesn't even wait for a reply and looks for his shoes and puts them on, then goes out onto the balcony to get the woman, carefully picking her up out of the broken glass and gently puts her in one of the chairs. He haphazardly dresses her and goes to open the door to the room, then moves back to retrieve the girl.

Taking her out of the room there's a small seating area where the elevators are and he gently sets her down, then hits the down button on the elevator. He leaves her there for the moment and goes down to the front desk, not even caring he's in his boxers and boots. The little weasel from before is still there and at the desk Dean leans in close.

"There's a woman on my floor that needs lookin' after, might do good to get her to a hospital and have her checked over or somethin'," he says, making a motion with his hand. "Now, I want a canister of salt, some red chalk, a bottle of holy water and a rosary, all in a canvas bag. You have exactly ten minutes." The little asshole just smiiiiles at him. "Of course, sir." Fucking creeper. Dean pushes off of the counter and goes back up to their floor, shoves into the room and starts getting dressed. He half-ass cleans up the glass and by the time the ten minutes are up he's back downstairs again.

He's only a little surprised to see the bag sitting there and he checks the contents. They're all there. "Thanks," he mutters, taking the bag back upstairs. He knows he won't have long, so he'll make it quick.

 

Stark doesn't quite have the energy to be grateful that Dean didn't argue with or question him; all he has is focused on not letting himself explode. Metaphorically speaking, of course: Stark doesn't explode himself, he explodes other things. So he just gives a tense nod and takes his liquor, snagging the duffel bag with his clothes on his way to one of the bedrooms of the suite.

Slamming the door with unnecessary but not quite breaking force behind himself, Stark drops the duffel bag and carves some protective runes against demons, angels, and Lurkers in general, into the door one-handed. He's not really tired enough, physically, to sleep, but knows from experience that the Aqua Regia will help with that. By the time he sets the bottle down to strip off his (miraculously not-yet-ruined) clothes, it's nearly half empty.

By the time the bottle is empty, Stark is sprawled amongst the satin sheets and has stopped picturing the varied ways in which Mason might have killed Alice, in favor of dreaming about her mostly-imagined reproaches. It never makes for the most restful night, as he also knows from experience, but he'll currently take what he can get.

 

Once Dean's back inside the room he sets the bag on the table where the map had burnt up and opens it up, pulling out the water and the chalk. While he waits, wanting to make sure James is asleep, Dean takes the time to rifle through the man's weaponry.

He takes a silver knife, something that looks like a cleaver, stuffing both in his own bag. Then he finds a gun that looks remarkably like the Colt they had in their possession. Shrugging, he shoves it in the bag as well. When enough time has passed, Dean goes into the man's room, making sure he's asleep.

Then, very, very carefully he painstakingly draws a devil's trap on the ceiling. It takes a lot of maneuvering so he doesn't wake him and takes a lot longer than he'd like, but he gets it done, pleased with his work. Then as an afterthought he sprays some of the holy water on him, frowning when it doesn't sizzle or he doesn't wake up screaming. He looks at the bottle and wonders if it's even holy water to begin with.

Dean doesn't have enough time to bless the water so he leaves, shutting the door again and tosses everything into his bag. He grabs the bottle of booze he'd been drinking, as well as some others and shoves them in the bag along with anything else he deems useful, then heads out of the room. He exits the hotel by way of the back entrance, not wanting the weasel at the front desk to say anything.

It takes him about twenty but he finds an abandoned for the moment car and hot-wires it in a few more, shoving the bag in the passenger seat. Getting in he shuts the door and pulls out of the spot, heading out onto the street. It's late enough that there's not too much traffic on the roads so he easily heads for the interstate to get the hell outta Dodge.


	3. God's Abomination Top Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean's attempt to ditch Stark doesn't work out. Some things are explained as the road-trip to South Dakota continues.

Stark wakes up itching.

It's early morning, early enough that the sun is barely hinting its way through the window drapes, and the city beyond is as quiet and sleepy as it ever is. Flat on his stomach, face buried in pillows, Stark can still sense a weird disruption in the aether in his direct vicinity. At first, he thinks this is the cause of the uncomfortable itching sensation that's manifested on his left side, arm, shoulder, and neck.

Shifting around to sit up, Stark pushes away post-binge fuzziness to try to locate or at least identify the weird, tuneless, high-pitched sort of feeling in his sinus cavities. It warbles and it's messy and whoever did it, they're obviously a complete rube at magic. He peers around the room suspiciously, but can't spot anything or anyone out of place, and absently scratches at his arm.

Only when the light starts to strengthen does he notice that the skin he's scratching at is reddened and somewhat rough. A quick inventory shows that the itching definitely has a corporeal cause, though he's not sure what the hell caused the rash. He doubts it's Lucifer's top-grade sheets bringing him out in hives. With any luck, it'll go away with the usual speed of any other wound, but for now, he does his best to ignore it, which is peculiarly difficult.

That sloppy magic trail he can sense is still unanswered as well, but he gives up on finding the reason in favor of getting dressed. He stated his plan of leaving as soon as he wakes up, and will stick to that. Lacing his boots up in his usual half-assed way, he grabs the duffel to head out and collect the rest of his artillery, and the hunter.

Only, when he stands from the bed, something tugs at him. It's a subtle thing, a snap followed by a tingle in his vertebrae, like popping his spine. He takes a careful step away from the bed, as if testing whether he can, before turning to look over the rumpled bedclothes. His gaze finally travels up and spots the configuration haphazardly painted on the mirrored ceiling. It takes a moment for Stark to work out the sigils and what they mean, and once he does, he can only laugh grimly. "Oh, you son of a bitch."

It requires checking, but Stark is completely unsurprised to discover that Winchester is gone from the suite, and has taken part of Stark's luggage with him. What a pain in the ass. With resignation, Stark calls the front desk and requests the materials he needs to perform another locator spell.

About twenty minutes later, Stark steps out of a shadow and onto the sunlight-washed pavement of a mostly abandoned highway on the west side of St. George, Utah. He takes up a position smack in the center of the two-lane road and crosses his arms, waiting. It's only a couple moments before he spots the car coming his way - a bright red, classic 70's Stingray, as if that's going to improve his mood. Once the vehicle is close enough for him to make out Winchester's features through the windshield, and for Winchester to make out Stark's, he tilts his head and raises one eyebrow expectantly.

 

Dean's on the road with classic rock as a backdrop in a fancy classic car. The only way life can get any better is if he's got Sam with him in the passenger seat. But that's gonna wait.

He's well on his way to Bobby's, though he hasn't tried calling him again, not since the first time. He stops off once at a bar to hustle up some money, pleased those skills haven't gotten rusty, then hit the nearest diner for some grub to go. He's on the road again in no time and reaches over to adjust the station as the one he's been listening to goes static-y.

Thankfully he looks up when he does to catch sight of the man in the middle of the fucking road. "Son of a bitch!" Dean exclaims, hitting the break to the floor, the tires screeching to a halt and the car stopping a miraculous foot from James.

"Mother fucker."

 

Stark doesn't move, doesn't even flinch, as the Corvette barrels towards him, keeping his arms crossed and his gaze dourly disappointed. When it has stopped, he takes his time in picking up the bag at his feet (he left the others in the Room) and rounding the testosterone-fueled monstrosity. 

Yanking open the passenger-side door, Stark drops into the low bucket seat as if this were all a pre-arranged pick-up. He stuffs the duffel into the tiny backseat and belts up before sitting back, not looking once at Winchester.

"Ya know, Wobbles...I'm kinda mad at you." He doubts Winchester will get the joke, but that's nothing new. Digging in the pocket of his jeans, he procures his slightly battered pack of Maledictions and lights up.

 

Dean just sits there, cursing to himself he waits, watches James - Stark, whatever - round the car and get in, shoving his bag in the back. His fingers drum against the steering wheel and he's just waiting for it - the blow up, the snappy attitude, hell for the guy to stab him in the neck or somethin'.

But he doesn't and Dean snorts a soft laugh and shakes his head as he eases his foot off the break and back on the gas to start up down the road again, lucky there'd been no one else on the road but him.

"Time sure flies," he says. "It's already past twelve."

 

With this sensation of triumph dampening the displeasure Stark woke up with, he can magnanimously allow himself to grin some for that response. He rolls the window down enough to flick ashes out, and shifts restlessly, trying to find room in the floorboard to fit his long legs. As entertaining as it might be to quote at this guy for the remainder of the journey, there are other things to be addressed.

"You really thought I was a demon?" It's very little a question; obviously, Winchester did think he was a demon, what with the containment circle. Presumably he knows better now.

 

Dean snorts a little and rolls his eyes, giving the man a look. "You really gotta ask that? The fuck was I supposed to think? Either you're a witch or you're a demon."

"Really? Those are my only two options?" Stark squints a bit, wrinkles his nose like he's debating which one to pick. "Neither one is very impressive. Can't I be something else, instead?"

"Something else like what? What can do the shit you can? You're not a shifter, a skinwalker, a werewolf, a vampire, a ghoul. I can go on and on if you'd like, recite a whole goddamn bestiary and I still wouldn't hit the mark."

Stark sighs, like he's disappointed with Winchester's narrow thinking. "No, you wouldn't. I'm nothing you've ever met before, and I'm nothing you'll ever meet again." A pause, while he takes and exhales a drag from his smoke. "Like a Highlander, there is only one."

"Then what the fuck are you?" Dean asks, getting impatient, and he almost wants to drive off road and kill the engine until he gets some answers. What the fuck is even going on.

This is a very good question. Snorting, James tosses his cigarette out the window. 

"Why should I answer that? I don't see that I owe you a damn thing. I rescued you from fucking Hell, in case you've forgotten, and since then have only voluntarily given up my time to drag across the fucking continent with you to some useless-nothing state so I can help you stop the goddamned Apocalypse, and you haven't done anything but question me and bitch at me and try to trap me in a hideous Vegas hotel with bad room service. I don't expect you to trust me, Winchester, or to shower me with gratitude, but a little fucking show of faith might be nice."

 

"I didn't ask you to come with me! I didn't ask for your fucking help. Yeah, okay, thanks for getting me out of hell but after that why the fuck should I travel with you? I don't need you to fuckin' babysit me. Alls I'm gonna do is get to Bobby's and find my brother. Then we'll get back to huntin or whatever the hell else." First things first, find Sam. He lets out a heavy snort. "Right, faith. What has having faith ever done for me?" 

Whoa, wait...back the fuck up. "What the hell do you mean Apocalypse?"

 

Stark waves a hand, a dismissive gesture towards the question of faith, because he really isn't one to speak knowledgeably on that subject. As for the apocalypse..."I don't know, exactly. Not really. But shit started when all those demons hopped the e-ticket train out of hell a couple years ago, and it's getting worse now, there are signs..." Stark trails off, not sure how to explain what he doesn't even know firsthand. "Apparently you're important."

 

"Signs. Of the apocalypse. Like what, swarms of locusts?" His grip tightens on the wheel a little as he presses he gas pedal down a little harder. "Important, me? Right. Tell me another joke."

 

"I don't know. I was drunk." For about six months, yeah. "Besides, if there are any signs of the apocalypse around, LA is not the place to be noticing them. It's halfway to Armageddon already." Restless, he lights another cigarette and stares at the scenery, rural Utah giving over to suburbs as they near a town. "And yeah, you're important. You think we dragged you out of Hell just because you went to Sunday school and God loves you?"

 

He snorts again at that, eases his grip up a little but he doesn't slow down. "Wonderful. A one way ticket to the end of the world and I get brought back just in time. Lovely. Any reason why whoever 'they' are decided to spring me? Pretty sure I used my last get out of jail free card."

 

"The questions again," Stark scoffs. "You really think I know why? I don't get told more than the information necessary to do whatever damned job they want me to do, and even when I do it right, they still take federal and state tax out of my paycheck. They're all fucking assholes."

"Well how the fuck am I supposed to know? Jesus Christ. I'm fuckin' flyin' blind here, man. Is there really nothing else you can give me? Nothing else for me to go on?"

 

Stark glances at Winchester from the corners of his eyes, briefly, then back out the window. He's not very well-informed, and he doesn't particularly care if Dean trusts him, but he's already trapped in a cluster-fuck of occult liars with their own agendas. If this guy really is important to stopping the end of the world, and if Stark really is going to help him...he gives a quiet, sort of defeated noise that comes on an exhalation of smoke. "Do you believe in angels?"

 

That? That makes Dean laugh, loudly. "Angels? Right, okay, sure. Angels. Angels told you to bust me outta the basement. Right, tell me another one." 

It wasn't the first time the subject had come up, at least not in the way that James is now. Sammy believes in angels, prays every goddamn day. He can remember his mother kissing his head and telling him angels were watching over him, little figurines on his dresser, now nothing but ashes and memories.

 

Pretty much the response he expected; anytime Stark does answer the questions, Dean seems hard-wired to disbelieve the answers. It's actually kind of funny throwing these things at him. "My father is an angel." Which seems the most flatly implausible thing ever, Stark sitting there in his torn-up clothing and scarred skin, smoking a cigarette straight from Hell, but he says it without tonation, as an expression of plain fact, unadorned.

 

It just makes Dean laugh even harder, vision blurring with tears. And maybe it's not just that, but the whole situation. Being alive again, out of hell, breathing fresh clean air. All he can do is laugh at the sheer absurdity of it all. "No, please, go on, tell me another story."

Cracking his solemn visage, Stark allows a crooked grin to slip through, the scars in his cheek pulling into a dimple. "Yeah, that's what I thought, too, when Uriel told me. But it fits. The things I can do, the way I am..." He trails off, shaking his head some and getting a moment of distance in his eyes. "Angels aren't what you'd expect. Nothing further from Precious Moments porcelain figures can be imagined. And they really, really hate me."

 

Once his laughing calms down he glances over at the man, brows raising higher and higher. "You're shittin' me. You're a fuckin' angel? No way, c'mon, quit yankin' my chain." 

On the road they come up on a semi that Dean easily passes, moving into the oncoming lane and speeding up and crossing back in in front of it.

For that, James has to laugh; a short, surprised laugh. What an assumption. "I am not." He almost manages to sound offended. "The product of a tryst between an angel and a mortal woman? Pretty much puts me in the number one slot of God's Abomination Top Ten." Again, he throws his cigarette out the window and rolls it up. Scratches at the still-not-fading rash on his left shoulder. "But _you,_ they like. I'm not sure why, but I wouldn't be very optimistic about it if I were you."

 

"So you're, what, half-angel or something? A hangel?" Yeah, that sounds amusing, he'll stick with that. "That's a real thing? Half-breeds like that? I didn't think angels could procreate. Hell I didn't think they even existed. Technically I still don't, but whatever, for the sake of the conversation we'll say I do."

 

Stark can't help thinking that Winchester isn't really considering the meaning behind what he's said, that the angels have a purpose for bringing him back, but he's sure as hell not going to point it out. 

"They aren't supposed to, not with people. But the ones stationed on Earth have to take human form, and, I dunno, maybe it's hard to do that without taking on other parts of humanity. Some inevitably fell in love, or something, I think it's in the bible, and it happened. Not often, especially now, but it did. Does. The term is 'nephilim'." This is weird, discussing this all so academically; he hadn't said anything to anyone about it since Uriel told him about it, and he's still not sure what to think of it.

 

No, that hasn't quite clicked yet but Dean's got a lot bouncing around in his head. He'll pick up on it eventually, though and when he does there'll be more than a slew of questions waiting in the wings - hah, wings. "Nephilim? I thought those were demon half-breeds?" He's heard the term before but thought they were in relation to demons, certainly not angels.

 

"The way I understand it, the angels responsible invariably fall, and most end up in Hell, so I guess it depends on your perspective. Even Lucifer was an angel to start with, so I guess you could say all demons, any Hellion creature comes of angelic stock," Stark explains, then transfers the scratching to the back of his neck absently.

 

"Huh, so it's an either or thing. Gotcha." Dean knew enough of religion to know Lucifer was an angel, had fallen and was cast out of heaven, blah blah he never really paid too much attention, put too much stock in any of that. "You alright over there?" Not that he actually cared or anything.

 

"If you want to get technical." The question's unexpected, and Stark's hand drops as he looks over at Winchester, bewildered. "I'm fine." Abruptly, he scratches again at his arm and changes his mind. "No, I'm not. What did you do? The containment circle made sense, but this is-- what? Itching powder? That's kind of injury to insult, Winchester."

"What? No I used- " Dean pauses and busts up laughing. Well ain't that somethin'. "I used holy water. Spritzed you with the shit to test you. Thought you were a demon, remember? Course I was gonna take measures." As was evident by the devil's trap he made on the mirrored ceiling.

"Holy water? That's not-- what?" Stark looks incredibly perplexed for a moment, staring at his arm. "Holy water. _Measures_. You fucking amateur. Leave the magic to me. That circle was so weak it barely would have contained a day-old hellpup." Turning around, Stark rummages in his bag, still muttering things like 'fucking civilians' and 'holy water' at random, disgruntled intervals.

"Well it's supposed to work on demons, asshat, not half-ass angels," Dean snipes back, offended at his hard work being called amateurish. Does he even know how fucking long that took him to draw, with chalk?

Stark finally sits back with a smallish glass bottle full of red liquid. "Oh, and does it?" There's doubt underlying his tone, or maybe not underlying so much as as sprawled atop the tone. "Maybe it'd work on shitty, stripper-hopping demons who don't even know what to do with the element of surprise, but anything with a little cunning could've broken it open easier than a cheerleader on a prom night." Using his knife, he pries the cork out of the bottle. Not entirely sure this will work, he tries splashing a little on the rash on his arm, then takes a drink of the substance while watching for any change.

 

"Yes," Dean grits out, scowling over at the man before turning his eyes on the road again. "It's worked, on groups of them even. Maybe it's because you're half a douchey human that keeps you from getting caught. Hey, make I should try to find some sort of angel-proof trap and see if that works," he says, glancing over every now and then to see what the hell he's doing.

"It was a mirrored ceiling, Winchester. All I would've had to do is throw something at it and the circle would've been broken." Stark narrows his eyes at the rash, uncertain whether it's having any effect or not. A little impatient, he turns briefly again to snag a shirt from his bag and soak it in the liquid, holding it to his arm. "I like that you assume it's my _human_ half that's the douche. There speaks someone who's never met an angel."

 

"Well I was too freaked out by your shit to think straight, alright! I thought you were a demon, remember?" Dean snaps, gripping the steering wheel. Jesus, fuck, this guy. "Ever think that maybe it's because you're a douche?"

"So you lose your cool when faced with demons? How long were you in Hell, exactly?" Stark's using that indecipherable maybe-sarcastic, maybe-serious voice again, and even throws a blank look Dean's way.

"Fuck you, asshole. I was put through the ringer, pulled out of hell and shoved into a new body. I'm not exactly in tip top shape to be fighting something I thought was a demon or a witch." And Dean hates admitting that: that he's weak and not at full strength. But he would be, soon.

 

"Fuck you twice, I did the pulling," Stark shoots back. "And at least _you_ got a new body afterwards." This is all just petty arguing, he's half-distracted by the intolerable itch, but Stark still has to turn away to hide a grin at how easy it is to get under Winchester's skin. Once the expression is under control, he checks the rash again. No improvement, so he takes another drink, muttering to himself. "Internal application is better, anyway." 

Dean makes a face and mocks the words under his breath. Childish? Yes, completely. But he can't really argue the point because James is right, the guy did pull him out of Hell. "The hell is that shit, anyway? It looks like kerosene." Probably tastes like it, too.

"What, you never had Aqua Regia in all your time downstairs?" Well, maybe not; Stark doubts they waste top-shelf stuff on mere damned souls, even in the arena. And come to think of it, any human he's met who tasted it seems to find it incredibly offensive to the taste buds and/or stomach. "Pretty much constituted all the medical care I received down there, so I thought maybe it would help with this, too."

"I've never even heard of the shit before now, what is it, booze or something?" It's probably some demon brand shit from hell that would burn his tongue off with one drop or some crap. And frankly he didn't want to know (lies; he was at least a little bit curious).

"Better. Booze _and_ something." He offers the bottle over, resorting to drastic measures instead and taking out his cellphone to dial his information center. Forgoing a greeting, he launches right into conversation. "Find me a remedy for holy water...no, like when someone pours it on you. Apparently I'm allergic...stop laughing now, or you're fired, and I mean that literally." Stark glowers some at the windshield in place of Kasabian. "I don't know, check the Codex, check with Vidocq, check CVS." And with that, he thumbs the phone off and shoves it back in a pants pocket.

 

Shrugging, Dean takes the bottle from him. He holds it up to his face and sniffs it, then looks at it, then takes a swig. A surprised look crosses his face as he pulls the bottle back to look down at it. He had clearly been thinking it'd taste like a mix of turpentine and ass but it actually tastes pretty good. And yeah, he's totally snickering at the conversation James is having with whoever is on the phone. When it's over he takes another swig and then hands it back. "Pretty good shit, you got there."

Stark forgets to be irritated with Kas when Winchester speaks, turning to look at him in vague surprise. "Yeah, I know." He takes the bottle back and takes another swig, himself. If it doesn't help the rash, it at least might make him less annoyed by the rash. "But no one else ever seems to think so."

"Really? Huh, well some liquor is an acquired taste," Dean says as he shrugs. And he's acquired a lot of taste for it, given how much he'd taken to drinking before he was turned into puppy chow. Not that he'll be stopping any time soon either, least not while driving, anyway. 

"So, allergic to Holy water, huh?" Dean asks and is barely able to keep a straight face.

"I'm not sure what it means that you've acquired a taste for Hell-liquor." He's pretty sure what it means for him, but, that's another story. The following comment earns a narrow-eyed glare from Stark, out of the corner of his eyes. It takes him a moment, but he finally grinds out "Evidently." This is followed by an easier spoken, "Good thing I have no use for it. What is it supposed to do, anyway?"

"Hell liquor? Like brewed in hell and shit?" That... is bothersome, he thinks. Because Dean's pretty sure anything in or made in hell isn't supposed to be 'good'. It unnerves him, actually, even as he runs his tongue along the roof of his mouth, still able to taste faint traces of it. Dean glances over and raises brow. "It burns demons."

"I don't think Hell has an import license, so yeah, it's made there." He can tell the idea makes Winchester slightly uncomfortable, so of course, he offers the guy the bottle again. "Does it? Why didn't you just bless the hot tub, then? We could've shoved your girlfriend back in there."

This time Dean shakes his head and refuses the bottle, even if he sort of does want another taste. It was damn good liquor, hell-made or not. But he doesn't like what it says about him that it even tastes good to him in the first place. 

At the suggestion he tilts his head, considering. "Huh, hadn't even thought about that. That's a pretty good idea. I'll have to remember that."

Stark makes an agreeing noise, and takes a moment to retrieve his phone, although he only put it away, to glare at the screen like he's telepathically threatening Kasabian if he doesn't call soon. This tactic doesn't seem to work, so instead, he seeks for distraction. "Tell me something, Winchester. You hate witches, but you have no problem using exorcisms and holy water and binding circles. How do you quantify that?" 

That seems to surprise him and he looks over for a moment, brows raised. "What? That's shit we use on demons. _Demons_. Witches are humans, with magic, that do stupid evil shit." And witches were humans that they couldn't kill, so mostly they settled for getting rid of their altars or magic books to keep them from hurting other people.

"You're human, and magic is magic is magic. Be it holy miracle, or summoning Satan, or even just charming your pot plants to grow faster and stronger, it all comes to the same thing." Stark seeks out a cigarette, lighting it and again rolling the window down some. They've passed through the small town, now, and are back into the boring, dry wilderness, so making conversation seems a good idea.

"But I don't do magic, how is that even considered magic? It's an exorcism and holy water is blessed water, that's not any sort'a friggin magic. That's just... something else." He says, feeling a little snappish. It wasn't magic, because there's no way Dean Winchester would ever do magic or anything like it. He hates magic, just like he hates witches. "It's _not_ magic."

"No. No, I call bullshit." But Stark doesn't sound very vehement about it; he's not particularly looking for an argument. "Even letting the exorcisms alone for the time being, a binding circle is a magic circle, it's Corporeal magic. People don't always have to be born with innate power to be able to execute Corporeal shit. I've got a friend back home who was a complete civilian when I met her, but now she makes some of the most badass potions of anyone, not a drop of Sub Rosa blood in her."

"I don't do magic, okay. End of story." Dean really isn't liking where this is going and it makes him uncomfortable. Even though deep down in the back of his head he knew James was right. Whenever they'd used a chant or a binding circle, it was some form of magic. But it's different than witches using magic. They've never used that shit on humans, just demons or any other monster that bumped in the night. Witches use their magic on other humans, that's where he draws the line.

James opens his mouth, then closes it, exhales heavily through his nose. "Chill out, Tituba. I'm not accusing you of anything. It's a little inconsistent, is all." He takes a long drag from his Malediction, then attempts to make smoke rings, but fails because of the wind coming in. "And I'm not arguing that most Sub Rosa are power-hungry, arrogant, greedy, self-serving sons of bitches. Fuck knows I've dealt with enough of them to hate 'em as much as you. But being a -- a _witch_ -" forcing himself to use the term. "- isn't the same as throwing a little useful hoodoo. Almost anyone can do some things, and it doesn't make them at all magical."

"Fine, whatever. Magic is magic and all that shit." Change of subject time. "So how long you plannin' on stickin' around for, anyway? Just till I," not we, "get to South Dakota? I'm sure you got plenty to do besides babysit lil ol' me." God, he hopes he does. Dean didn't wanna be stuck with this guy any longer than he had to.

Turning his head to look at Dean, Stark gives the older man a sort of disappointed look, like he can't believe Dean didn't try harder to cover up his need to switch topics. 

Of course, he blatantly disregards that questioning, continuing on his own topic: "Look, there are four types of magic. One is Corporeal, touchy-feely magic - reading objects, making charms or potions, healing; the second is Aethereal, which deals mostly with powers of the mind. Telekinesis, scrying, psychic shit." Another pause for nicotine. "And the third, the one you've obviously encountered the most, which is Baleful magic. What most people call black magic, and what's unfortunately easiest for civilians to work. Learn the right spells, make the right sacrifices, and hey-presto! Instant witchcraft."

"Oh come on, are you seriously doing this right now? What is this, class time? Did we step into a portal back to school? Give me a fucking break." Dean rubs his forehead and pinches the bridge of his nose, absently filing the information away - because hey, you never know, right? That shit might come in handy. Not that he ever, ever plans on using it. Ever. Because he hates magic. "Are we done with show and tell now?"

Stark gives a wide, patently insincere smile. "There's a fourth type, theoretical magic. God, angels, the things that glue the universe together; no one really understands it, which is why it's theoretical. On the other hand, it's the reason you have a body now, so I guess it's all right to have around." He takes one more swig of the Aqua Regia before tossing it back towards his bag. "Your problem is that you only notice the uneducated bitches using Baleful magic, and that's because the other types have no reason or desire to draw your notice."

"For the love of God, will you stop? I get it, all sorts of magic and some are good and some are bad and magic gave me a body and got me out of hell, blah blah. I. Get. It." Dean bit out, then reached out and snapped on the radio, turning it up as far as it could go to further drown James out so he didn't have to listen to him bitching.

The next batch of cigarette smoke comes accompanying an overly dramatic sigh of exasperation, and Stark even goes in for some flamey eye-rolling and hand-waving. For someone who hunts monsters, this Winchester bastard sure is close-minded. But he doesn't press the point for the time being, only sparing his phone another glance before sitting back in his seat, pulling the heels of his boots onto the edge of it and folding his long legs towards his chest, a posture that makes him look unaccountably younger and only emphasizes the lankiness of his limbs. 

The posture does make James look much younger than he is, almost childlike and for a moment it reminds Dean of Sammy when he was younger and sulking for some reason or another. It makes his chest ache and he keeps his eyes on the road. 

Stark smokes moodily for a while, lighting one cigarette with the butt of the last. Until some familiar opening bars come blaring through the speakers, a guitar riff he recognizes in about two seconds. The bass kicks in a few seconds later, and he can't help grinning; by the time Patti Smith's rough, sexy voice purrs out the first ' _ask the angels, who they're calling_ ', Stark has progressed from grinning to chuckling to full-throated, whole-hearted laughter, because really, this is his life?

The music is familiar but Dean recognizes it and looks over when James starts laughing near hysterically. Dean scowls and points to the radio. "Are you doing this shit? Is this you? Not cool, man. You don't mess with a man's radio or his music. That is just all kinds of wrong."

"Hell no; you can't plan shit like that, it's too good." Stark shakes his head, turning to grin at Winchester to share the joke. Only, once again, Winchester looks like someone shat on his double-bacon-cheeseburger, all scowly, with his jaw set hard, and James is unaccountably reminded of the last time he was on a road trip. Over eleven years ago, with Alice, to Mexico; it makes the grin fade and he looks back out the window as he shoves the thought away, as if afraid someone might be reading his mind. 

Dean sighs quietly as he watches James look away, the wide grin gone now. Okay, so maybe he's been a little hard on the guy - alright, a lot hard on him - lately. "... It was pretty funny though. Like, angels, really?" It's a sad attempt, sure, but at least it's an attempt.

It _is_ a pretty sad attempt, and James isn't sure what to think about it. He swivels his head around to stare at Winchester with wide, bewildered eyes, more than a little uncomfortable at this bizarre 180. Thankfully, before he can pursue the conversation, his phone rings - playing 'Sex and Violence' by the Exploited. He reaches over to turn the music down and looks at the unfamiliar number uncertainly before answering. 

"Stark." A moment of silence, and now his own jaw is set and he's scowling, but his voice is flippant. "Oh, hey, Doc, nice of you to call. This is what you consider high priority? I can get beat up by vampires, set on fire, and you won't even return my messages, but a little case of poison ivy and you come running?...yeah, well, I hope whatever you're doing, there's a Nobel peace prize in it, because your practice is fucked otherwise." 

Another silence, a long one this time, and Stark's rolling his eyes again. "So you know something for it, then?...that's all? Praise God and pass the ammunition. I guess you're not totally useless after all...yeah...yeah, go fuck yourself, feather-face. Tell Candy I said 'hi'." Again, he disconnects from the call with no more ceremony, then peers out the windows to the salt-flats surrounding them, devoid of absolutely anything helpful.

 

Thank God the phone rings and Dean just rolls his eyes at himself and stays quiet, flitting back and forth between listening to the one-sided conversation and the radio. He speeds up to pass a camper on the road, then slows down to just over the speed limit again. The call has ended and he wants to ask but he doesn't. It's not his place even if he is pretty damn curious. Sides, doesn't seem like James wants to share anymore anyway and that's fine with him. He likes the semi-silence better. Reminds him of the days he'd drive and Sam would be asleep in the passenger seat while he had the radio on low for sound.

The itching is still irritating enough that Stark's almost wanting to use the Room to get somewhere civilized, but even if he was willing to give himself away like that, the shadows in this place aren't nearly deep or dark enough. Resigned, Stark returns to his previous positon, scratching reflexively at his arm. "When you find a truck stop, pull in. I guess I need to take a whores' bath." Ironic, really, that soap and normal, filthy-talking-monkey water are all that's needed to remove this irritation. "And maybe we can steal a different car; this one has too many daddy issues and nowhere to fit my legs."

Dean raises a brow but doesn't say anything, just nods and keeps driving, eyes on the look out for any pull off stations. "There's nothing wrong with this car," he says, lips twitching a little. "But you can pick out the next one." See? He's trying.

"Good, 'cause your taste sucks." Obviously Stark appreciates the effort. He's definitely picking out something big, and mean, not one of these little pretentious living-the-dream-mobiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few notes for those not familiar with Sandman Slim:
> 
> \- 'Sub Rosa' refers to those humans who are born with magical abilities, and sometimes expands to include other species too.  
> \- Lucifer is _not_ trapped in a cage; he has always been the only creature in Hell that can travel to Earth.  
>  \- The Uriel mentioned here is not the junkless Uriel of SPN; he is actually a fallen angel in the guise of a Doctor. But then, it always was Uriel's task to oversee humanity.  
> \- I probably forgot some other things. I'm much more well-versed in Sandman Slim's universe than I am in Supernatural's.
> 
> If you enjoy this, please do leave a comment and encourage its continuation.


End file.
